Sinners
by white lotus
Summary: It's been done to death and it shall be done yet again: RoyAi drabbles.
1. Pride

**A/N - **My first entry into the Full Metal Alchemist Fandom. Yet another fan of Royai, yet another series of drabbles. Nothing new. Hey, it's not _my_ fault they're such a cute couple... I've only watched about fifteen episodes of the animé and read one volume of the manga (Australia's a bit behind when it comes to the publication of manga or release of animé) so any out-of-characterness would be due to that. Do tell me if I have anything done wrong. Thanks.

**Disclaimer -** I don't own it. Don't hurt me.

**Thanks to - **My beta! And my sister for helping out with the little things.

* * *

**Sinners**

**One: Pride**

It's been two days and perhaps three hours since Riza Hawkeye last spoke to her superior. She isn't entirely certain. She may be an hour or a half off, owing to the fact that she was so angry, she'd lost track of time whilst privately fuming about him.

She's doing it again, right now, fair eyebrows digging down towards her nose as the documents before her suffer a withering mahogany glare and the grip on her pen slackens.

Artificial characters, crisp and clear, march across her line of vision, a silent attempt at communication. Riza re-reads the same line for the forth time and realises she still has no idea what it says.

She furious.

Because she simply can't remember what Roy had said that ticked her off so terribly in the first place.

She delivers the papers on time, efficient and organised as always, meeting his inquires with cold, clipped, monosyllabic responses. It's the first words Roy's heard from her in two days - he isn't entirely certain - and her voice prickles unpleasantly somewhere beneath his ribs.

She waits for him to dismiss her, but he's frowning at the papers before him.

He furious.

Because he's can't remember what he said to make his Lieutenant glare at him so.

At last, he reaches for his pen, stabs, slashes at the paper, leaving behind black trails of blood that read his signature.

Another. Lifts and turns the page. Again.

He squares the documents on the table, and then trusts them at Riza, imagining it's a bayonet he's running through her instead of a mission report that's just given her a papercut.

Roy wants her to leave. Right now. To get her out of his life and to let him forget this frustrating tug at his heart that troubles him whenever the both of them aren't on good terms with one another.

She presses her middle finger and thumb together, a mocking mimicry of her Colonel's signature gesture as she smears the blood over her fingers, tries to ignore the sting of the cut and the edge of a steel coloured gaze.

Like flint.

He dismisses her, and for the sake of appearances, gives her his most charming smile.

Her heart flutters fitfully, papercut forgotten.

She wants to slap him.

She's not sure why, and this prompts her to vent her emotions on the door, shutting it a little too forcefully on her way out.

One thing's for certain, however.

She'd rather burn alive than be the first to apologise.

The clap of the lock mechanism snapping violently into its groove resounds in Roy's head, slightly more painful than the feeling in his chest.

Pride is a troublesome thing.

But he'd rather be shot in the head than be the first one to apologise.

_Restart: Three minutes and counting..._


	2. Sloth

**A/N - **Second drabble. This one was fun to write... The thought of a sleepy Roy is simply too adorable.

To **C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only: **Yes, it's a collection of drabbles. Nothing new. )

To **ElasticBobaTurtle: **Thanks! The fact that they're so unsure wround one another makes it all the more fun.

**Disclaimer -** I don't own it...

**Thanks to -** Su-chan (my beta), Aznsnowflake (my little helper) and **C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only** as well as **ElasticBobaTurtle **for reviewing - Your thoughts on my work mean a lot to me! Thank you!

* * *

**Sinners**

**Two: Sloth**

He doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to open his eyes, because he's so terribly comfortable, and _blast_, did he really _have_ to move his head off the desk?

Roy imagines his consciousness fraying and fluffy at the edges behind his closed eyes, blurring into an irreversible mixture of consuming greyish-white that pushes down on his eyelids and claims him slowly, sweetly... Ah, _sleep..._

It isn't as though Roy _hates_ being confined to a desk, armed with a writing utensil, up to his eyebrows in paperwork. It isn't as though he _wants_ to be outside stretching the dreadful cramp out of his knees, and it certainlyisn't as though he'd rather be doing something slightly more _relaxing_ than reading a stack of typed complaints. Like taking a nap...

But he doesn't _mind_ paperwork, no: Not at all.

It's just that, well, sometimes - most of the time, actually - he just can't be _bothered._

Roy shifts, allowing the blood to circulate a little at his nape and jaw. Mumbles a bit of contented incoherence and wonders vaguely why his desk feels warm.

Or why it's stroking his hair.

"You'd better not be drooling on me,"

No. Tables definitely _aren't_ supposed to talk.

With all the effort in the world, Roy forces his eyes open.

Blinks.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," He's too sleepy to cough the thick softness out of his usually deep voice. "I'm on your lap,"

"Yes, sir. You are."

He attempts to run this confirmation through his delayed thought processes: His ass is on a hard floor, there's an empty bottle of whiskey next to Riza, who's wearing nothing but one of his nightshirts, and his head - along with the insufferable _agony_ bouncing around inside - is _in her lap._

Excellent.

All the more reason not to move.

Perhaps he ought to say something. An apology? But really, what was there to be sorry about, besides this confounded hangover? Satisfied, he sighs against her and closes his eyes again.

Besides.

He just can't be _bothered._


	3. Envy

**A/N - **This may be the last drabble I upload for a couple of weeks...

**Disclaimer - **Me no own.

**Thanks to - **Su-chan, Aznsnowflake, **ElasticBobaTurtle** (Thank you so SO much for your reviews on my other stories),** C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only, Rukusho, The Silent Alchemist, saffiremoon21** and **Maylin-Chan** for reviewing. You guys rock!

* * *

**Sinners**

**Three: Envy**

The air is damp, clogged, contaminated - thick with smoke, congested with conversation, reeking of alcohol, and Riza Hawkeye finds this astounding: The mere thought of the atmosphere bursting at the seams, considering the fact that the size of this ballroom is beyond her comprehension.

This function honestly has to be the first time she's seen this many people in one room, and quite frankly, being part of it is not convenient, especially when one has appointed herself with the task of keeping an eye on a certain Colonel, who has an _infuriating_ tendency to get blissfully tipsy and wander off in a semi-intoxicated, flirtatious "trance".

She locates him by pure chance, in the midst of a small cluster of high-ranking aristocrats.

Most of them are women.

She's aware of his notorious reputation as a heartbreaker and she _knows_ she shouldn't be concerned about females hanging off his arm, but no matter how many times you're cut with a razor, it still stings twice as much when you don't expect it to.

Riza watches from a distance - below him as he leans on the railing of the gallery - and wishes that that dress was hers, that her hands were as unblemished and perfect and that it's her waist that Roy's arm is wrapped around, her ear he's whispering into, _her_ that he's trying to seduce tonight.

Riza can't tell if he's drunk or not. He's laughing more than usual, but whether it's alcohol or deliberate force that's influencing this behaviour is uncertain. There's an odd, almost desperate hope that the explanation is the former.

They're both in dress uniform, Riza and Roy, starched and stiffly formal, insignificant patches of blue lost amongst a sea of black and grey dinner jackets and vibrant gowns of silk and lace.

Individuals seek comfort in their own kind.

And yet, as she gazes up at her superior and fellow military officer, she has never been so close and felt so distant.

It leaves her empty and aching: A fragile shell whose contents have been consumed by envy.

At last he turns, glances over his shoulder and spots her in the crowd below. With a winning smile, he subtly tilts the flute of champagne towards her and drinks a mocking toast.

She shatters.

He turns away to forget and so does she, vanishing into the crowd as fragments of her thoughts cut so deeply, it's a wonder she isn't lying there bleeding to death.

At the door, Riza hesitates and turns back once more. Roy's watching her, but he's far - much too far away, and even as she collects her coat, excusing herself with a headache, she wonders if he can see the pieces of her broken heart that she has so carelessly left behind.


	4. Gluttony

**A/N - **I lied about the previous drabble being my last. _This _one is my last one for a while... I use pre-paid internet, and that runs out today, so I won't be able to publish anything for a while. This was drafted in an exercise book during Math class... Which probably explains the lame attempt at humour. Envy left me feeling a bit depressed, so I wrote this to try and make up for it. Strangely enough, I wrote this with the Deadly Sin of Gluttony in mind, but it ended up more... Lustful than Glutton-ish.

**Disclaimer - **Don't own it, no.

**Thanks to - saffiremoon21** and **C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only **for your reviews. Keep 'em coming, guys! Thanks so much for the support!

* * *

**Sinners**

**Four: Gluttony **

Contrary as to what many have come to believe, Colonel Roy Mustang is exceedingly conscious about what he eats.

As a child, he never found candy, chocolate or cake very enticing and his indifference towards sweets in general became a quality that he is particularly proud of.

He _does_ enjoy a good coffee - in moderate doses, mind you - a bit of drink is acceptable on social occasions (or when he's having a bad day), but a healthy body means a healthy mind and the last thing that Roy needs is for his mental stability (though certain people would never quite agree with the statement that he might be wholly _stable_) to go haywire on a sugar high.

He knows Riza's probably depressed today, because she's been eating a lot more than usual. Either that... Or it's that time of month again, and if he doesn't want extra pockmarks in the wall behind him, he'd do well to keep from irritating his Lieutenant.

Either way, considering what she's already consumed by lunchtime is enough to make Roy queasy. Scones with jam and cream and coffee for breakfast, a banana, an egg tart, a packet of cheese crackers, a custard bun, half a lemon poppy seed muffin, countless mugs of hot chocolate in between...

Roy watches with a vague sense of awe as Riza digs into a generous slice of black forest cake and wonders exactly _where_ she puts it all.

She looks like she's enjoying it immensely.

"Good grief, Lieutenant, you've been eating cakes all morning. That _can't _be good for your teeth."

The mahogany eyes blink. Slowly. She stabs a glacê cherry with her fork and raises it to her lips.

Roy digs his nails into his orange, peeling back the thick skin. The sharp tang of citrus laces the air between them as he tears a section out and chews on it thoughtfully. "I mean -" He swallows, "- if you're craving something sweet, eat some fruit. It's better for you,"

No reply. Despite feeling somewhat awkward now, Roy squares his shoulders and ploughs ever onwards. "And all that sugar will convert into fat. We don't want that lovely figure of yours ruined now, do we?"

She chooses to ignore this as well, and it begins to annoy him. What kind of authority did he wield if his own Lieutenant refused to listen to his nutritional advice?

He eats another orange portion. "As your Colonel, I strongly recommend a change of diet on your part, Lieutenant Hawkeye, for the sake of your long-term health, not to mention the fact that -"

"Would you like some, Colonel?"

"- you might - What?"

"Some cake, sir. Would you like some cake?"

He stares at her.

There's chocolate crumbs and cream at the corners of her lips and Roy, being the part-time pervert he is, suddenly imagines something along the lines of _lick, cream_ and _Riza in a mini-skirt_.

He needs a shower.

A _cold_ shower.

Right now.

"Colonel?" Her tongue pokes out to claim the stray crumbs.

Roy stands up and turns so quickly, he upsets his chair.

"Sir?"

"Excuse me," His voice sounds strained. He has to get out of here before he makes any more of a fool of himself. Thanking his lucky stars that he likes to wear his pants a size too large, he barely manages to shut the door behind him before the nosebleed starts.

Back at the break table, Riza shrugs, finishes her cake and goes off to cut herself another slice.


	5. Greed

**A/N - **An angst Roy. A flailing touch of fluff... If you concerntrate really hard. This one's rather Roy-centric. My wonderful beta had previously gone over this and given me the green light to go ahead and publish. Unfortunately, I wasn't particularly happy with the original and so sat down and re-did the whole thing. (Sorry,su-chan!) Thus, technically, this hasn't really been beta'ed, so if you spot anything dodgy, do be so kind as to let me know. Thanks!

**Disclaimer - **You know I don't own it.

**Thanks to - **Su-chan and Aznsnowflake for all their help, and to **az4ever, Tsunade-chan, saffiremoon21, Maylin-Chan, C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only, ElasticBobaTurtle, K.A. Maples **and **Haruka-Clone **for your reviews. You guys make me so happy.

* * *

**Sinners**

**Five: Greed**

You're never happy with what you've got.

For Roy Mustang, this is particularly true. He recalls his entire childhood being greedy for attention, dissatisfied with second-best, unhappy when over-looked and oh, how he _despised_ not getting his way.

And somewhere in the lingering aftermath of fluking it, bluffing his way through, scheming, dreaming and working his ass off, it's taken him this long to realise that he's never quite been content with the final result.

Ishbal should have never happened.

It had been something he'd signed up for on a whim, wanting to prove that he was capable of doing things right for once. How _very_ wrong he was. He'd been young then, young and foolish, and with a rash _patriotism_ for the State that had made him utterly delusional, he allowed himself to be used as a weapon responsible for the cold-blooded slaughter of hundreds of innocent lives.

Maes had warned him against it.

Roy still curses himself every day for not listening.

He'd been terrified of his first victim. Two humans, neither one the predator nor prey, _shaking_ as they read the fear in the other's eyes, afraid to die, afraid to kill: Two cornered animals.

He should have backed down and run. Run far away from the carnage and devastation, but he hadn't wanted to risk being shot in the back when he turned. Such a coward.

The rifle was raised and raw instinct swallowed Roy whole. He hadn't even realised he'd snapped his fingers until he found the building burning down around him. Only _then_ did he run. And when the truth of the incident finally registered amongst the confused disorder of his mind, he'd collapsed on the battlefield - an empty street where only hours ago children had _played games_, for God's sake! - and been violently sick.

If he'd stopped there, perhaps he might have found it easier to forgive himself. But he hadn't. Then came Marco, the Crystal Alchemist and his Philosopher's Stones: Those blasphemous creations.

Blood red and brilliant, the ring on his middle finger mocked him as he raised his hand over the city - and snapped. The inferno that followed burnt away every last shred of innocence he still possessed, branded his crimes into his soul and seared his nightmares with unforgiving guilt.

Was it any wonder he was almost destroyed by depression afterwards?

He'd wanted a lot then, too: Redemption - Hours locked up in a room that stunk of sin and sorrow, drawing transmutation circles, one after the other in an endless cycle of regret, round and round until he could no longer tell night from day, sleep from consciousness, right from wrong. Escape - A pistol in one hand, a bottle of brandy in the other. If only it were that easy.

Maes had saved him.

Roy's still paying off the debt.

Much has changed, thought much has remained as it was. His desires have been altered: To become Fuhrer, to finally wield enough power to make a plausible difference in the world, perhaps for the better of mankind. His will has not: As much as "changing the world" sounds like an unrealistic, romantic ideal, he means to see this dream through, and he will not let anything stand in his way. See, Greed isn't always such a bad thing.

His ambition unsettles most who know him, though not so much as his unbreakable resolve.

As far as he's concerned, failure is not only a discarded opinion, it's non-existent.

His unwavering determination has been mistaken for arrogance and coldness, and resulted in many who oppose, perhaps even hate him, but he tells himself that it can't be done any other way, and when he achieves this ambition, he'll set things right; Nothing is gained without making sacrifices.

Sometimes Roy forgets this, though.

Depression is his ultimate demon, and when it's quiet and dark, and no one's there to point and stare, he finds himself in his office, lost in the depths of another glass bottle, a gun just within his reach if he stretched, his heart cut by the edge of a shattered mind.

It's empty, and he's alone.

This is how Riza finds him, drunk and barely conscious, coughing up his grief, wandering his void of remorse. She can't call him back because he's gone too far, she can't guide him because she doesn't know the way and she can't erase the pain because she runs the risk of damaging him further, but she can suffer with him, if need be. So she takes hand and whispers his name, wipes away his tears and promises to never let go. She shoulders his burden with him, and they walk the darkness together.

One day, they will find their way.

They say Roy Mustang's ambition is great, perhaps too great. He possesses the makings of the next Fuhrer, the potential to be a celebrated leader, and the flaws necessary to bring it all crashing down.

What they don't realise is that behind every great man is a great woman.

Greed will be his downfall.

And Riza Hawkeye will be there to catch him and mend his wings.


	6. Wrath

**A/N - **Not particularly wrathful. Not particularly RoyAi. Um. Warnings include a nasty Riza and a kinky bit of undergarment, as well as a lame (I mean positively limping) sense of humour. Perverted!Roy makes a return too... Kinda. I had fun writing this. In fact, I had so much fun that it turned out to be more of a one-shot than a drabble... Beware the rambling and runny sentence structure. Inspired by a certain scene in _Rush Hour 2. _Comment and criticise as you please. Thanks.

**Disclaimer - **I'm too irresponsible to possibly own anything as cool as Full Metal Alchemist.

**Thanks to - **Su-chan for taking the time, Aznsnowflake for putting up with a grumpy me, as well as **Hola-Meg-a-Cola, K. A. Maples, Tsunade-Chan, saffiremoon21, ElasticBobaTurtle, C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only** and **ooOAnimeChildOoo** for being vewy, vewy wonderful and reviewing my stuff. Cookies for y'all!

* * *

**Sinners**

**Six: Wrath**

Upon a belated reflection, Roy has to admit that this entire episode has been in extremely bad taste, and judging from the expressions on the faces of his fellow comrades, he's pretty sure they'd agree.

A bet was how it had all started; A challenge based on "manly" courage and boyish pride. Hughes, Falman, Fuery and Armstrong had wisely decided to exclude themselves from the potentially disastrous wager, and watched on with a vague sense of amused dismay as the Colonel, Havoc and Breda shook on it.

A suicide mission with the promise of financial compensation for the successful; Motivation, unknown.

No one had even considered the fact the idea would be executed, and everyone had been prompted to suspect whether the substance Second Lieutenant Havoc lived off was actually tobacco.

If there ever was such a terrible trio in the Military history of Amestris, none would have surpassed these three: Mustang the Mastermind, Breda the Driving Force, and Havoc the Agent of Practice.

The usual quiet afternoon atmosphere became charged with a surge of prickly anticipation, suppressed smirks, chortles and schoolboy giggles, stifled behind a gloved hand, a cigarette and a newspaper as the entire sector united to wait breathlessly for the result to this unadvisable folly.

Seconds ticked by with a leaden hand, slowly gesturing to the Roman numerals stamped silver on the huge timepiece hanging in the office, the sound forming a bubble of nervous apprehension.

At last, footsteps up the corridor, pounding a dreadful drum roll as the victim of their practical joke charged into the room, beside herself with rage, and began hunting out her pistol.

As one, Roy and Havoc embarked on a frantic search for handkerchiefs.

For there, in full view, bent over and rummaging up a storm of files, documents and stationary in her drawer, was Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.

In a miniskirt.

A pause.

"WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS SWITCHED MY CLOTHING?"

"I'm not entirely certain, Lieutenant," The Colonel replied as nonchalantly as he could from behind a growing scarlet stain on a blue-checked handkerchief, "but I must bear in mind to give him a handsome raise,"

He barely managed to duck in time to avoid the impact of a particularly hefty paperweight to his head.

The thunderous ransacking continued as Riza endeavoured to turn the entire office upside down.

Maes gestured frantically at Roy. _If you want to survive long enough to become Fuhrer, I suggest you start running now._

Inconspicuous as ever, the three responsible for this heinous crime against morality began to inch towards their nearest exit.

There was a cry, like the wail of an incomplete chimera that sent violent chills down Roy's spine, and the full scheme was revealed: Havoc had not only hidden her blue uniform trousers, he had proceeded to hide her guns, too.

Smart lad.

But there was a slight flaw in his precautious meditation - a miscalculation: Lieutenant Hawkeye was more than capable of taking them down with her bare hands.

They could hear the clock ticking again, each resounding _clack_ intoning doom.

Riza stood, incredibly, horribly still, one hand rested on the desk beside her, the other over her chest. She was the very image of feminine perfection, blonde hair still damp from her shower, miniskirt barely brushing the level of mid-thigh. Almost free of the room, Roy's inner pervert couldn't resist pausing to gawk at her.

Then she smiled.

And he was very, very scared.

"Start praying, gentlemen. Because only God can save you now."

* * *

Havoc and Breda had suffered heavy bruising about the face (mainly in the form of a black eye on Havoc) and a couple of missing teeth (from Breda). Roy merely sustained the after-effects of a severe tongue-lashing, as, much to his good fortune, he _does_ happen to hold the rank of a Colonel, and as his Lieutenant, Hawkeye dared not strike a superior officer.

Havoc was rewarded liberally for his efforts, and it seemed that the incident had largely been laid to rest.

After locating her proper attire (and prized weapons), Riza was surprisingly quick to forgive, and Roy was placed on the receiving end of the silent treatment for a mere four days, in comparison to the usual week-and-a-half he's accustomed to when she becomes particularly annoyed by something he's done.

Needless to say, he was on guard when she offered a round of drinks at the local bar on the following Friday evening and demanded to learn of the motivation behind the sudden display of generosity.

"To prove I've no hard feelings, Sir."

Roy thought about this. Apparently, none too thoroughly.

"Fair enough," he had said.

* * *

"Crushed sleeping pills," Havoc announces, his last and only cigarette twitching, unlit between his lips. "Who'd have thought she'd spike our drinks?"

"Obviously," Breda's voice is placid with defeat, "not us."

Roy surveys the tremendous distance from the parked car behind which they are ineffectively hidden, down the sloping road, across the square and two blocks to the gates of the Eastern Headquarters, and _prays_ that they aren't locked. He isn't sure he won't burst into tears if they are when he gets there.

The paperboy strolls past with his load, spots the wretched threesome and wolf whistles, blowing a taunting kiss in their direction.

It's all Roy can manage, to make a rude hand gesture and refrain from strangling the boy on the spot.

"Easy, Colonel. It's probably the first time he's seen leopard-print on a guy. I must admit though, it's kinda a turn-on."

Roy swears he can feel the muscles in his arm spasm in an effort to keep from removing Havoc's cigarette from his mouth and shoving it up the smoker's nose.

"That's enough, boys." Breda hitches up his cactus-print boxers, the bulge of his stomach jiggling as he scratches it. "Let's get back to HQ so I can get something for breakfast."

Roy is sorely tempted to claw his own eyes out with his nails. Good _grief_. Stuck in the middle of the city, hung over and stripped down to nothing but your underwear, and all this idiot can think of is _food?_

Blinking to stop the involuntary twitching in his eye, Roy takes a deep breath, rising from his crouch by the back door of the car. "Right, men. On the count of three: ... _Three!_" And with that, all dignity is abandoned in a mad bolt for their what might be left of their dismally battered pride.

Hopefully, they won't be arrested for indecent exposure.

It's not over yet, though. Because back at Headquarters, Riza has employed the services of a certain amber-eyed, blond boy and armed him with a camera.

_Hell hath no fury..._


	7. Lust

**A/N - **Um... I am afraid I may have disappointed some of my loyal readers here. If you were expecting something humourous for the final chapter, I must beg your pardon: I am unable to comply. While Gluttony and Wrath somehow turned out vaguely funny, I felt that Lust had to be serious - it's such a dangerous sin, after all.

There's nothing _too _extreme here... Just a bit of RoyAi lovin'. I mean, if there ever was a relationship that was essentially physical, this would be it. Once more, I would like to thank every last person who left a comment or review... You have no idea how much I treasure and appreciate them. I'd also like to thank anyone who actually read this entire set of drabbles, regardless of whether you reviewed or not. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. So. The chapter to draw the curtains on this series; The final act... For now.

Thanks for everything, guys. It's been fun.

- white lotus.

**Disclaimer - **You'd think, after all this time, I might have gotten somewhere in my sad, sad life. Ha. No such luck.

**Thanks to - **Su-chan: Done at last! Thanks for all your help! My lil helper, Aznsnowflake, **Blonde-Existentialist, Hola-Meg-a-Cola, K. A. Maples, saffiremoon21, Tsunade-chan, ElasticBobaTurtle, C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only, Only Secret and Jessica. Noogen... **Thanks so SO much for taking the time and effort to review. I know how hard it can be to think of something to say, and I really appreciate your opinions and thoughts. Thanks again :bows:

* * *

**Sinners**

**Seven: Lust**

Sometimes, he watches her for hours on end as she goes about her daily business, updating a file, reading a book, dosing herself with mugs of bitter caffeine in order to remain alert long enough to pick her way through the tedious workload.

She knows he's watching, and _he_ knows she knows he's watching, but he does it all the same, and she pretends not to notice, because everyone's more comfortable that way.

Roy studies his Lieutenant like an artist studies his subject, contemplating and analysing each aspect and feature of her in turn, a slow and delicious visual treat. His eyes travel from her clipped-up length of blonde hair, to her long, deft fingers - so quick at the trigger; back up to her full lips - perfect in shape, but always painfully dry and cracked; the corner of her jaw - somewhat square, for she has a slightly masculine feel to the frame of her face; her neck, just visible beneath her tall, buttoned collar and he imagines the gentle dip as it curves to become her shoulders, downwards... Downwards...

Sometimes, Roy has cravings.

Violent urges to forget himself and discard all logical reasoning for what he wants so terribly that it aches. He's weak, sick and starving, shaking with the symptoms of deprivation.

He craves Riza more than Havoc craves those nasty, cheap cigarettes. It's bad for Roy and worse for her, but he just can't seem to stay away.

Certainly, there are other women. Unfortunately, drinking water and telling yourself it's wine isn't going to get you drunk and his dependency on Riza has become such that if he withdraws now, the consequences would cost him far too much.

So Colonel Roy Mustang surreptitiously crosses a leg over the other under his desk, chin perched on the heel of his upturned palm and he _craves_.

It's been unusually quiet for a while now. Riza stops mid-way through reviewing an application for long-service leave to stretch and paw at her tired, blurry eyes. Releasing a much-needed yawn, she glances about her to find that time has left her far behind today; the place is deserted - and the Colonel has found his way to her side.

"Sir," She stands to retrieve several files from a draw, but before she can locate them, Roy has caught her wrist and closed the distance between them much too fast.

Riza's heartbeat, breath - chain of thought - are all rudely placed on hold as her befuddled mind frantically attempts to deal with the new number one priority of _figuring out what to do_ without causing a complete system failure in the process.

She jerks her head back, breaks the warm, moist seal and air floods her lungs, making her head spin. Two seconds of coldness, a quivering sigh. "Colonel?"

Her lips are so dry. They're bleeding.

With a thumb, Roy wipes the scarlet stain away and realises that it's his own blood. He wants to lick at the stinging in his lower lip, but it's so _funny_ all of a sudden that he can't help grinning stupidly, wondering how he's going to get the red out of his white pyrotex.

Her voice ventures out again, a dry leaf breaking between his fingers. "Colonel?"

"Stop looking so lost, Lieutenant. That's an order."

She can't breathe again, but she doesn't want to, doesn't need to, because _this_ is her survival and with _him_, she doesn't need anything else.

It's warm - so warm - and they're both burning up; is it a fever? Some sort of wild illness? Riza's pressed up against the wall and her hair's everywhere, a limp stretch to her shoulders, over her eyes, in her face, caught between their mouths. She's scorched across her jaw, down her neck to the hollow where the buttons at her collar have somehow come undone, and hot and cold all over, with her eyes shut, she can't tell whether her stifled moans are in pain or hatred, or why they're wet with tears. She's almost certain that somewhere, Roy's snapped his fingers and set both of them, with the entire office, alight.

Gloved fingertips search bare skin as her hands, usually so skilled and able, fumble a feeble protest against the fastenings of his blue uniform.

Roy is drunk. Intoxicated by the bitter, choking scent of smoke and gunpowder, addicted to the taste of salt on her skin and he devours, drinks, drains this moment dry with a desperate sort of mania, akin to the fervour with which a starved child would consume a long-awaited meal.

He _needs_ this.

And as suddenly as it began, all motion is ceased, and with a whimper of distress, stillness descends on the pair with such gravity that they wonder how they continue stand and why they haven't fallen, helpless and shattered like the victims of a excruciating tragedy.

She's crying, and he doesn't understand why.

With her hair in disarray, her uniform crumpled, her lips crushed and her cheeks streaked with tears, she has never looked so achingly beautiful.

Her breath sends fire down her throat, pain between her shoulders, a piercing cold to her lungs and she's afraid to blink, because he's there, before her, clouded by this shimmering veil of her own confusion, and if she dares to close her eyes, even for a fleeting moment, he might vanish and never return.

So, with the urgency of a drowning soul, Riza clings to Roy as though he's the only thing left in the universe that's real, clenches the blue fabric at his shoulders in a wordless plea to never abandon her, because he is her purpose, her world, her life, and without him, she would be nothing.

He knows this, and as sure as the Sun will rise tomorrow, he is sure of the fact that Riza Hawkeye is as necessary to him as he is to her.

One cannot breathe without air.

One cannot dream without hope.

One cannot endure without courage.

And Roy cannot live without Riza.

They hold one another with the fear of letting go, for in the other's embrace, they find a sanctuary, a small measure of peace in the cruel chaos of a world fraught with human frailty and deadly sin.

They stand: Two sides to an equation. Two halves of a whole. A symbiosis of the most curious nature, the imperfect completion of that exquisitely flawed word: Love.


End file.
